Best Parquet Poems
"We're going to need a bigger fig leaf."
Proclaimed the teacher to her staring class
As the model removed the last of his attire.
A collective, almost silent gasp
and the clatter of a fallen brush on parquet floor
confirmed this to be true.
Among the downcast eyes of most
was an accusing glance from pink-faced girl
to blushing secret lover.
Others scanned the body top to toe;
some fixed their gaze;
not all upon the model's eyes.
The over-fondling of a brush,
the squeezing squirting of thick paint from tube
A pencil slowly rotated in a mouth;
gestures, lost of innocence,
in steamy, thickening room.
A closeted sigh.
A wistful moan.
The heavy silence broke;
"As you may have guessed," the teacher coughed
"The subject for your sketch today is Adam."
This or That, Vol 11 Poetry Contest Fig Leaf, placed 3rd
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Date wrote: 31st March 2022
A curious cocktail of odours greets us
as we move in from playground
to corridor, to cloakroom, to classroom.
Beeswax fragrance: freshly buffed parquet.
Brasso smell: base metal turned to gold.
Jeyes Fluid: vapour killing vile germs.
Such alchemy starts our day with clean slate.
Playground cacophony left behind.
Now each sound has discipline, has purpose.
First bell: registration shall begin.
Next bell: proceed to assembly hall.
Lasses stand on round marks; lads on square marks.
Regular rows, parallel precision.
Stand to attention. Uniform inspection.
At ease. Handshakes and smiles. Peace be with you.
Silence pervades as we ponder our sins.
With ramrod fingers Miss thumps on the keys.
Staccato. Left. Right.
'Ride on Ride on in Majesty'.
A short sermon on compassion is served.
Then, school notices: soccer successes
and the listing of scallywags destined
for public thrashing at high noon next day.
Third bell: learning shall begin.
RI lesson. St Paul's Journey yet again.
In silence we colour in his route map.
With crayons on auto-pilot we day dream.
Our apostle arrives in Rome by morning break.
There I stood, flushed: gripping
a diaphanous pelvis of his guitar,
he rips a pulpy drool of velvet notes…
glossy under a roulette of lights,
saucy on the parquet floor upon
an artist's feet :his body movement
resembling a twisted weave; the
bossa nova of high timbre frothing scales
of primitive jungle moans,
while Latin hands roll with dizzy
Carribean beats as if Santana
and Jobim grooved with him.
Oh he aches, shakes like a livid soul,
more ravished than refined
in his groping music, my night's balm.
Streams of ‘Oye Como Va’ entice a trance
rippling down my spine, ready
to tug with the accompaniment of
drums and sax; till the last rhapsodic groan
prolongs a dazed jiggle for hips
to leap unto the heat of the sky.
My flesh perspires as I whirl,
unmindful of the exotic rhythm
prancing like a black magic woman!
-------
10/17/2015
Trashed Poem #3 Contest
Sponsor: Broken Wings
By nette onclaud
Kinky boots ...
kicking naked truth
Stripped bare
down to the nightshade roots
Temptress gaze ...
collecting laundered money
off the dirty parquet
Her pay-for-play
get the tilted short cups
ice cubes rattling
See the lecherous throats
swallow the fermented, lewd offering
Let ‘em feel the venom sting:
Allow the paid, slow death foreplay
to snake swamp drain into their pee brain
Seduction Fay Wray eyes
swinging ‘round a metal pole
Medusa headdress affixed at the top
Turning men’s lusty ape bones
into limp chimp stones
Got a Cleopatra guillotine bed,
ready to give
scissor heads a mean Herodian lop
Liquor urging lip gallows to put
a tip squeeze between the bust
And a little rump jiggle
have ‘em groveling in the dust
Baroness Von Knaughty,
she-devil
of such enormous bosom beauty
Daughter of Baal,
Arch duchess of hell
Quenching taboo thirst
with another flesh set of sleaze
Shakedown the pockets
of the bottom feeders
with flimsy lingerie leggy tease
Baroness Von Knaughty,
she of buxom royalty
Vixen kitty, who shows no pity
Feline daughter of the first unveiled dancer,
who STD burned
every lost soul guest
at Hades inaugural purge orgy
Sweat drips from little dust covered faces in the grim back-alley factories
No time for rites of passage other than fingers nimble enough to spin and
Balance wheel spool spin and stitch regulator to their master’s instruction
Anyana is not unique but one of the ‘fortunate’ ones
Gloved hands mop up droplets of perspiration from a lace veil and seduce
A myriad of lovers before she even enters an intricate parquet dance floor
Takes a cue from the orchestra and whirls on stilettos and rhapsodic flair
Chantelle did not purchase her dress at the charity shop
Their stories unite as neo-liberal gangsters spin a yard on wheels of fortune
While their procession fails to trickle down moderate glimpses of hope
Some stride on the cat walk of privilege and others are scavengers in rags
Exposed nipples are rather dissimilar but follow a different path
Anyana gathers her virtues and sends love across the boundary of despair
Her shoes bear no fairy tale stories when midnight strikes at the fashion
Of stolen passion from sweat shops for garments scented with perfume
Cause and effect cannot moderate nor gloss over amoral fabric
03rd November 2019
I lost myself today.
Walking home I lost my way.
Lost in thought, my mind all gray,
like dots in patterns of senseless moire,
I've faded away.
My feelings died today.
Emotional turmoil gone astray,
once vividly painted, now, dull clay,
colorless, lifeless and dark in dismay.
Spirit broken as passions flay.
My heart broke today.
The love it had has drained away
like shards of crystal on stone parquet
shattered to pieces in my emotional fray,
left bleeding and broken in dismay.
The world stopped today.
Spinning slowly, the time fading away
loosing the fight in this ethereal display.
The daylight goes dark with each fading ray,
eternally black in lights decay.
My words won't come today.
Just worn out dribble and tired cliche,
cloudy, my thoughts are complete disarray
with meaningless babble and nothing to say,
so lost without my words today.
01/24/16
"Another Man’s Treasure"
Jetsam tumbles
broken doorbells
no one
answers
anymore
ironing boards
pressing to imprint
something of significance
a life, your life
droll and predictable
it all sinks
to the bottom
of a bad dream
with yesterday’s
stale tears
sharp heels
clicking on a parquet floor
like knives ripping words
jagged scratches on old wallpaper
like a warning thrown at a wall
Sundry feelings furry
ageing inevitable
intimate moments blurry
moulding green against a new life
you prophesy diamond clean
their part in your life
half-state now
pill swallowed
like a bad dream
forgotten
and
there you sit and twirl
grinning from ear-to-ear
on your swivelling black leather chair
before a glowing screen
lighthouse revolver ready
evolving
glowing prisms adrift
blue ribbons of seaweed green
tangled in your wide Sargasso Sea
morse code blinking reverie
lost memories pleasantly drowned
like a murderess you pin them down
then, the tight grasp of possibilities
rise to face the horizon
eventually, they are Marco Polo found
and
there you are
midpoint
hovering
poised
waiting
Unconditional
Singular
One man’s trash
Another Man’s Treasure
(LadyLabyrinth/2020)
"Wonders of the Deep" / Chemical Brothers
https://youtu.be/xHEgT--jJLk
The boy gets teased for wearing Holy Keds
And never Michael Jordan tennis shoes.
A field trip for a Friday afternoon:
Today, it’s modern art, the locals’ wing.
Head down, he tags along behind his class.
At least he is polite, his teacher thinks.
The parquet floor makes crackling under foot.
A landscape hangs along a barren wall.
“In modern art, emotions bring in shapes...”
Not listening, as usual, she thinks.
“Look, that’s my home!” he shouts aloud and points
“No, that’s the modernist O’Keeffe!” she scolds.
And herds her charge with open arms past guards
And docents under disapproving eyes.
after William Carlos Williams
My husband and daughter sleep
blind to the bleach
of street lamps
and every wellspring headlight sluicing
the dark
Pre-dawn but this cavity
chants of you —
Don’t smile
Don’t smile
Better to tongue
the deep, empty groove
I rise, pirouette across
cold parquet
The kitten shadows me
so we waltz until
it is time to commit
Keys under fingers
twitch, twitch
and my page glows as the black
prowls into this gentled grey
the taste of a cached penny
behind compressed lips
Hold your breath
make my wish
Climbing from her escapism's, evanescent pool; love's predicate...
Figure skating of dreams, infinite; timeless, Hollywood's paper doll ?
Fete fete's parquet circles; abstract evolutions ex de facto; abtruse comets
Her beauty's evening star ? An epoch; fantasia's zephyr winds; parabolic these doors
Celestial's sphere sunset's skies; axioms ignis fatuus ? Fandom's fluttering wings..
Spawned their pure white dove; solitary, blue canopy her flight ? Carte blanche scarlet, tears.
So you took your best shot,
but sadly it rimmed out
Rocket swish arc reached for the brightest star ...
only to receive
a missed blastoff launch tipoff
Got time zone sent head fake crash landing
to the parquet floor ocean bottom
Love is a heart rattling thing ...
net elusive,
and so very nylon tantalizing
And when you make the wrong call,
false accusations that fray
Out of the hoop pops the ball —
a certain love score
gets taken away
Now you’re muttering low,
back pedaling thru life so slow
Pounding your fist into your chest,
knowing that you never really gave your best
Ever looking to shoot for
the easy access escape route,
because the tight rim of iron doubt
always caused a falling out
And when the circular tears
would finally start to double dribble down,
only the comforting benched touch
of your leather sofa felt soft
Then faded backcourt memory fears,
became a slippery slope surface
for a failed playa pawn Globetrotting clown
It was your last shot to win,
but the sure aim drop just rattled out
To the high displeasure
of a mumbling, low-post peeved pout
Losing ain’t a sin,
if love
wasn’t a game
you were simply playing
Red numbers burn 4:04 into the darkness. Moments later, they transform their identity and moan 5:16. Work begins in three hours and forty-four minutes; three hours and forty-three minutes.
An uninviting breeze blows through the filmy fabric, interrupting her weary gaze. Tiny defined bumps form on top of her ashen skin. Her bare feet wilt from the edge of the bed as she sits above the bottle of poison that she has since neutralized.
He should have stumbled through the door by now.
Draping a blanket around her curved shoulders, she meekly makes her way to the next room. For a fleeting moment, she permits herself to contemplate her existence. She wonders how she ever succumbed to this.
Just outside, a vehicle screeches to a halt. Music and muffled voices are heard with some effort. A woman’s laughter penetrates the air. The screen door clicks gingerly behind her as she leans over the paint chipped railing hoping to hear a little more. It is him. He is okay.
Instinctively, she returns to the bed and pretends to be asleep.
With difficulty, the apartment door opens and closes. Keys hit the parquet floor with a familiar clatter. The stagger to the bedroom is clumsy and piercing. She lies perfectly still with fallen eyelids.
It is quiet again, but this time the silence is too loud.
She seals her eyes tight and comforts herself with false hope of tomorrow.
january 12, 2012
(this is not a poem, it is a postcard story I had written for a writing project. Was wondering if anyone had any thoughts about it and/or constructive critisim. Did it evoke feeling? Thanks for checking in:)
I hear grand piano music floating in from afar
It is poetry so crisp, It's crystal clear
Poetry is chandeliers on high ceiling of white
It is polished parquet in spaces with soft light
Poetry is grand plies performed with perfect poise
Like choreographed parts you'll enjoy
Poetry is rainbow-arched windows, wide as love for you
Such language conveys heart's pulsation, soft as dew
But there's more!
Poetry is precious sound of deep unending peace
It tugs at our heartstring, new heights of joy we reach
Poetry awakens my soul to the good in you
Though caution comes in, love isn't the blues
Poetry is slow caress of each and every word
Like perfect pastels of my smiles, haven't you heard?
Poetry is alive like our rhythm without blues
It is vibrant, yet so profoundly smooth
Poetry is sun and moon in fullness of soft glow
Such friend favors everyone, wishing to grow
Poetry is starlight of joy in your eyes I see
It is spark I adore, when you're with me
Poetry is our stream of dreams flowing endlessly
It goes where divine might mingles with light, you'll see
Poetry is you and I in our silent orbs
Inspiring song, dance, and serenity.
*
A swinging sixties chick was I dressed head to toe in Biba
Miniskirts my mother loathed and free love too, so I was told
Music of choice was Motown and Soul that played upon my radio
At weekends tuned to Saturday Club a programme never missed
Radio Luxembourg each night, though signal crackled and hissed
Reception was weak as twilight approached, with my radio under my sheet
At the foot of the stairs Mum’s voice could be heard
“Turn that radio off, and go to sleep”
In ‘62 a pirate ship launched off the Essex coast
Radio Caroline was her name, with young DJ’s as programme hosts
Innovators of their time, played songs we loved the most
Enjoying the challenge, but taking a risk each time they went ashore
Deemed illegal ~ no license had they, so were technically breaking the law
Trailblazing times enhancing our lives, playing songs never heard of before
these songs were the soundtracks of my youth
these songs I love and adore...
Tony Blackburn their first DJ; a handsome young fella back in the day
The first DJ to spin his discs whilst bobbing around on the pirate ships
At 77 still playing his songs and boring the nation with corny quips
on ‘Sounds of the Sixties’ every Saturday morn
he plays the tunes
I singalong...
I sent a request for his 'Magic Moments' spot
feeling sure it would end up in his 'magic melting pot'
Our 'Magic Moment' in '63, as we danced the night away
at the Regent Ballroom, Brighton, on a floor made of wooden parquet
was it love at first sight on a midsummer’s night
by the light of the silvery moon...
As we danced to the Chiffons 'He’s so Fine' it became our special tune
When Tony played our 'Magic Moment' on his radio show
I could hardly believe my ears
then my eyes filled up with tears
for my darling he has gone ~ for he died ten years ago
Written on 1st December 2018
after hearing my request played upon the Radio...
Contest :NOSTALGIA any form,any number of lines
Sponsor: Brian Strand
HONOURABLE MENTION
People say my poetry is mostly doom and gloom
But I’m a funny person and I’ll prove it to you soon
My wit and sharp ripostes are a constant delight
Let’s see if I can tell this story to prove I’m right.
I had three friends who loved booze
And the only time they didn’t imbibe
Was when they had passed out
Or were taking an alcoholic snooze
Each died doing what they loved
Drinking, sipping and guzzling
Johnny was a straight-forward drunk
Mary took refined and dainty lady-like slips
And Tommy was an out-and-out guzzler
Here are their stories, one by one
Pull up a chair and sit, let’s get to it.
Dear Mary! So refined and dainty
So lady-like in her behavior and thinking
Especially when she was drinking
She’d take a lady-like sip and gently wipe away
Any liquor residue on her lips without delay
She’d raise her very favorite carafe
To refill her dainty gold-etched antique glass
Mary’s elbow-bending was poetry in motion
Her pinky extended her glass up-ended
At an angle she felt was fashionable
For admiring gentlemen who’d not feel offended
When she drank them under the table
Her company (tres chic) an inspiration
But, Quelle domage! One evening Mary took a sip
And it went down to where it shouldn’t
She couldn’t speak so couldn’t call for help
Her swift departure was the tragic result
I wondered what dear Mary was thinking
At the end, I surmise it might have been this:
“I didn’t take an unrefined nip
Nor an undainty unlady-like sip
How inconvenient this is, such a bother
Dear me. Oh, Pooh. Oh Pish!”
A couple of weeks went by
Before dear Mary was found
When the policeman opened her door
His eyes rolled backwards as he fell over
While the landlord ran for cover
Mary’s very favorite carafe
And her dainty gold-etched antique glass
Sat on her cherished Victorian table
But the mess in the rest of the room was incredible
Mary here, Mary there, Mary, Mary everywhere
Spreading across the parquet floor with unhurried flair
Like a forgotten and unchecked plumbing drip
But at a refined and dainty very lady-like clip.
EPILOGUE:
Never inhale while upending your glass
But if you should happen to do so
Whether sipping or dripping
Be sure and do it with class.